


To Live Together In the Covenant

by MyBloodyUnicorn



Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Minor Character(s), POV Minor Character, POV Second Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyBloodyUnicorn/pseuds/MyBloodyUnicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Daphne and Emmanuel were married.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s been three days of near silence. He still says _good morning_ and _goodnight_ , _yes_ , _no_ , _please_ , and _thank you_ , but when you ask if everything is okay or what’s troubling him, he just looks at you. He sighs a soft huffy _hmmph,_ and turns back toward the window. When you put your hand over his, he doesn’t pull away but he doesn’t respond either so after a couple attempts, you just stop asking.

 _Well, Daphne... what did you expect from a man you found wandering around naked?_ This voice in your head, even after all this time, is still your mother’s—right down to the way “naked” is barely more than a hiss, like just saying the word was a sin.

He went back to sleeping in the guest room you’d made up for him the night you brought him home, although after three weeks you’re still not certain he actually sleeps. Either way, he’s not sleeping with you, literally or otherwise.  

Tonight, like last night and the night before, you’ve left the bedside light on, the one that lets a sliver of light under the nearly closed door. You shouldn’t be so comfortable with such an obvious set-up. _Look at me, I’m in here, I’m waiting for you._ But every rustle and creak from the house makes your chest constrict, straining to hear if that was his tread upon the stairs, his footsteps down the hall toward you.

And when it isn’t, you close the book you haven’t been reading, set it on the nightstand and let your entire body deflate, crumpling in on yourself until you are in the middle of the bed, one arm under your head, the other wrapped around your knees. Tears pool in the bridge of your nose before spilling over to the other eye.

_Well, Daphne... what did you expect?_

You pull one shirtsleeve over your hand and use it until your face is dry and your sleeve is a disgrace. The door hinge scrapes faintly and there’s a shift in your center of gravity, tipping you toward the weight that’s settled onto the mattress with you. He’s facing away from you, looking at his hands as though they’ve just arrived and he’s no idea how to work them, clenching them into fists and turning them over in the light.

You pull yourself up, make one last swipe at your face, and hope you look dignified because you know this is it. He’s been in retreat for days now and he’s finally come to your bed to say he’s leaving.

He takes a deep breath, exhales, looks at his hands and says, “I think we should be married.”

When he turns to look at you, he has an expression of trepidation that’s so familiar to you now. It’s the same face he made the first time he was on top of you, moving between your thighs so gingerly, like he thought he’d break you; the same face that asked “Is this okay?” and you told him _yes, yes_ over and over until it became a litany.

But this? You don’t know how to answer this.

“Why?” Your voice cracks, from crying or just from disuse, you’re not sure.

He continues almost as if he hasn’t heard you. “I know you were married before. And I know you still—” he swallows hard “—love him. But I... want to be here with you. To stay with you.”

He turns away, back to looking at his hands. “If God wanted you to find me, then He can’t want us to be... living together in sin.”

You climb over and sit next to him at the edge of the mattress, shoulders touching.

“My mother,” you say, “would have _loved_ you.” The confused look he gives you has you biting your lip to keep from laughing and you take his hand in yours.

“Emmanuel, it isn’t as though we can just pop down to City Hall and get married, you know. We still don’t know who you really are. You could be...” You stop just short of completing the sentence with _married already_ , unwilling to speak aloud the fear you’ve had all this time: one day another woman shows up at your door and takes him back.

He sighs softly, hangs his head. “I... hadn’t considered that.” He withdraws his hand from yours, setting it on his knee as your heart sinks.

“What if...” you start, the idea still half-formed in your mind. “If we were married in the church, by one of the priests there, Father Randall maybe, would that, you know, _count_?” Why the same God who took a husband from you would care so much about your sins with another man, you couldn’t say, but Emmanuel seems to think differently. His face softens, his shoulders relax.

“If we were married in the eyes of God, then yes, it would... _count_ , as you say.”

In the glow from the reading light, you examine his profile—the curve of his ear, the stubbled jaw, the inky dark hair—and contemplate what you’re agreeing to. You try thinking of him as a husband, _your_ husband, your _new_ husband, but somehow the circuit just doesn’t complete.

 _Does he even love you?_ It’s a different voice in the back of your head this time. One you don’t want to hear.

“Tomorrow, then, okay?” you offer. “I’ll call Father Randall and ask if he’ll see us.”

At Saint Bartholemew's, Father Randall is the youngest priest there “and wears an _earring_ ,” your mother had gasped as she first described him. He was not just the most liberal priest there but he had always been the kindest to you. If anyone is willing to marry you to a near-stranger under dubious circumstances, you hope it would be him.

At last, a smile breaks through and you exhale, not knowing you’d been holding your breath.

“Okay,” he says. “I’d like that.”

He puts a hand on the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, then takes your face in both hands and draws you toward him. He presses his lips to your forehead in a kiss that is so warm and utterly chaste. Your jaw tightens and your hands clench fistfuls of bedsheets.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs. You can’t meet his eyes so you just nod and watch his back recede from the room, closing the door softly behind him. You snap the bedside light off, settle into bed and pull an extra pillow under your arm, holding it to your chest and pressing your face into it.

In the dark, you manage to not weep until you hear your husband’s voice asking you again, _does he even love you?_

 


	2. Chapter 2

Halfway down the stairs, you can smell something. Something... burning?

It gets stronger as you get closer to the kitchen until you round the corner and on your kitchen counter, there’s a plate of toast and bacon, both charred black.  And there’s Emmanuel, head tilted, looking at the plate.

“I... attempted to make breakfast,” he says, still regarding his handiwork with curiosity. “But the results were...”

“Inedible?” you offer.

“I was going to say ‘less than ideal’ but yes, ‘inedible’ would suffice.” A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Good morning, Daphne.”

You smile back a little but last night’s crying jag turned into a morning hangover and your only thought is for coffee to alleviate the pounding in your head. First, though, water and aspirin.

As you replace the bottle of tablets in the cabinet and set your now empty water glass in the sink, he asks, “Are you unwell?” His hand closes around your wrist and his face is drawn with worry. The heat of his hand seeps into your very bones.

You shake your head as much as you think you can manage to and tell him, “No, just a headache,” but after he releases your wrist, the headache is gone. _Maybe I was just really thirsty_ , you think.

He waits until you are midway through a second cup of coffee to ask if you’re ready to call Father Randall yet and every muscle in your body tenses. Looking up from the bills you’ve been sorting, you’re surprised to see him fidgeting in his seat and toying with a pen, eyes wide with anticipation.

“I... uh, yeah, just let me finish what I’m doing here first,” you offer weakly.

He ducks his head and smiles a real smile: the corners of his eyes crinkle and there’s a flash of perfect white teeth. As he leaves the room, he gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze as he passes by and he’s barely out of the room before your hands are covering your hot face, your heart kicking against your ribs. _Jesus_ , you think, _what am I, twelve?_

 

 

* * *

 

Shortly after noon, you find him in the yard, untangling the pole beans you’d planted a month ago and promptly forgot about. How gentle he is with the vines, untangling tiny green tendrils and training them to grow up around the trellis instead. You’re still watching him as he starts to pluck side branches off a tomato plant and realizes you’ve been standing there. He brushes his hands on his pants and walks toward you. There’s the faintest sheen of sweat at his temples and at the collar of his t-shirt and it isn’t until he quietly asks, “Well?” that you snap out your thoughts.

“Oh. Right. I talked to Father Randall and he’d like to meet with us after Thursday evening services,” you say.

The phone conversation had been brief and more than a little awkward, but what did you really expect: you told the priest you wanted to be married, in his church, as soon as possible, to a man you'd found a couple weeks earlier, wet, naked, and without any recollection of who he was. In return, Father Randall had asked no less than three times if you were really sure you knew what you were doing, and you resisted the urge to snap, _Do I seem like I know what the fuck I'm doing?_

“He... isn’t sure about it yet but he wants to talk with us and think it over, and he says he could possibly arrange for us to, you know, to be married in the chapel Sunday night after Father Benedict and everyone else goes home.”

In an instant, your face is in his hands and his mouth is on yours, kissing you hard, hungrily. You clutch his sweat-damp shirt in your fists, pull his body closer to yours and gently nip at his bottom lip. He pulls away, and presses his forehead to yours, his breathing ragged, the grassy scent of tomato leaves clinging to his hands.

“Good.” His voice is little more than a hoarse whisper. He brushes a bit of dirt from your cheek with his knuckles, clears his throat and says, “I should probably shower.”

“I...” _I’ll join you_ , you think. “I’ll... go make lunch.” Before he can say another word, you turn on your heel and stride straight back into the house, hands shaking and a hot ache thrumming inside you.


	3. Chapter 3

Father Randall takes a seat behind his desk, folds his hands, and wastes no time getting to the point.

“You do know how completely insane this sounds, right?”

“Believe me, I know.” It has been a quiet refrain since the night you brought a stranger home to live with you: _ what am I thinking? this is crazy, right? what the hell am I thinking? _

Then this morning, you came downstairs and saw Emmanuel signing for a delivery, an envelope. When you asked what it was, he just smiled and bounded up the stairs, two at a time, to the guest bedroom where he’s been sleeping. But it was more than just the contents of the package that nagged at you.

Throughout the day, new and more insistent questions began to press into your thoughts.

You were pulling towels from the washer and realized you didn’t think he knew how to use a computer. As you wrote a grocery list, you looked at your own handwriting and thought,  _if he doesn’t have a last name, what did he even sign?_  Halfway to the supermarket, you asked the empty car, “Wait, who paid for it?” And as he came out of the house to help you carry in groceries, you watched him walk towards you and wondered,  _how many other things do I not know about him? How many things does he not know about himself?_

Emmanuel, meanwhile, has never seemed so at ease, although you quickly note it’s hard to gauge someone you’ve known little more than three weeks now. Three weeks that feel like nothing and forever at the same time.

That afternoon, you’d found him stretched out in a lawn chair pulled into the shade, his blue eyes nearly closed beneath a fringe of dark lashes, the lines of his face slack and peaceful. He was humming softly to himself, the tune unrecognizable. In his lap, your neighbor’s ancient and ornery cat lolled, boneless with ecstasy, purring away under the stroke of his hand and you muttered under your breath,  _girl, don’t I know it._

Because there was  _that_ , too, wasn’t there? You’d been sleeping alone for a week—a time that definitely felt like forever—and it took next to nothing to send your mind skidding away from any doubts, into an utterly different direction. His shirt clinging to his back in the summer heat. His hand closing around your wrist. The pink tip of his tongue darting over his lips before he speaks. And just an hour earlier, he slid his arm around your waist and kissed your temple as you crossed the parking lot and you had nearly buckled with the need to press against him and cover your mouth with his, standing there in the long shadow of the church.

Thursday evening services were always sparsely attended and almost all of the dozen or so parishioners at least double your age. Many of them were the same elderly women who had reached out to you in the weeks and months after your husband died, as if to initiate you into their sorority of widows. Part of you wondered what they must think now, slinking back into their domain with Emmanuel’s hand into your own. The drone of the evening’s homily went unheard as your every thought dwindled down to his hand: the rough knuckles, the soft fingertips, the way it felt the last time he touched your hair, your mouth, your thighs.

You hung back as Father Randall shook hands and took a moment to speak with nearly everyone there. Walking to his office, he said he wished to speak to each of you privately; first you, then Emmanuel.

The young priest’s office is small and stuffy, and you glance around at the clutter of bookshelves and papers, avoiding the keen brown eyes watching you from the other side of the desk.

“You’re not... you know...” His voice drops and he arches an eyebrow, eyeing your body up and down for any obvious changes.

Your eyes snap back to his face. “Hilarious. No.”  

“Well, explain it to me then, Daphne!” he says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Why else would there be the sudden, immediate need to be married to a man you just met, who has no idea who he is?”

Without hesitating, without thinking, the words are out of your mouth:  “Because I love him.”

The priest starts to say something, but you can't stop until you've laid this burden down.

“I had forgotten what it was like, you know, to be... _alive_. To be actually alive, living. For five years. I got up, I went about my day, I went to bed, and nothing touched me. And then, he just, he walked out of the river. I was standing there and, and, the water moved and he just walked straight out. To  _me_. And, I don’t know, I think maybe God sent him to me? Is that crazy? Because it sounds really crazy, even to me.”

Hot tears are spilling down your face, dropping onto your lap, and Father Randall is out from behind his desk, pressing a handkerchief into your hand. You close your eyes and crush the handkerchief in your fist.

“And I... I don’t even _care_ ,” you whisper. “I don’t care if I’ve known him a week or a year or whatever. I thought I would  _never_  be happy again. That I would never find it again.” You pause to wipe your face and the priest sinks into the chair next to you. “So however long it lasts, if it lasts, I don’t care. I’m happy.”

The priest smiles even though his eyes are sad. He leans in towards you until your heads are nearly touching and just says, "You're not crazy." 

You shrug  _if you say so,_  and laugh with tears in your eyes. Father Randall reaches over and places his hand between your shoulder blades and rubs in a small circle, kindly and brisk, as if you're an overtired child. Then he stands and puts one hand on your shoulder, laying the other on the crown of your head.

“The peace of the Lord be always with you,” he says.

“And also with you,” you reply without thinking, then add, “thank you.”

“Go in peace.” The hand that had been on your shoulder is offered to help you up. He takes the handkerchief back, uses it to wipe a smudge from the corner of your eye. He nods towards the closed office door.

“Go send in your handsome stranger.”


	4. Chapter 4

Emmanuel takes one look at your tear-ravaged face and springs from his chair where he has been waiting.

You indicate the priest’s office door. “Go in. He’s waiting to talk to you.” You smile and reach out to stroke his worried face, letting your hand linger on his warm skin.

“I’ll be in the car when you’re done. I’m okay,” you assure him. “Really.”

Walking out of the church, it’s cooler now than it had been when you went in just a few hours earlier. As you draw in a deep breath of the sweet night air you realize, you are, actually, okay. You feel... _good_. Calm. Better than you’ve felt in weeks, with perhaps a little lingering embarrassment at the way you’d broken down in Father Randall’s office, but everything you’d said to him was true.

You do love this man, this utter stranger who walked into your life, and you’re glad, grateful, even, for whatever time you get to spend with him. Maybe one day he’ll be gone and you’ll be alone again but that’s a life you know how to live and you aren’t afraid to meet it again.  

 

* * *

 

Eyes closed and singing along with the radio, you snap to attention when you hear the car door opening. You turn the radio off and feel your cheeks stinging pink as Emmanuel climbs into the passenger seat. He looks rattled and when you ask what Father Randall said to him, he just shakes his head, staring out at the empty parking lot.

“Hey,” you say quietly. When he turns to look at you, you lean in and take his face in your hands, the muscles of his jaw hard under your touch. You kiss him softly, once, and then again. You feel the tension leave his face and his lips part slightly when your tongue brushes against his full, soft bottom lip. As you pull away, his eyes stay closed another moment. When he opens them — clear and deep blue in the near dark — your breath catches.

“Ready to go home?” you ask, starting the car without waiting for a reply.  

 

 * * *

 

It takes two days for Father Randall to call you back with an answer. Two days of Emmanuel having withdrawn back into near silence again, consternation marring his face, but the peace that you found after leaving the church that night has taken root in you. There’s a feeling of lightness and warmth inside you and you’re a little surprised to find it doesn’t even waver when the priest tells you he’s not convinced it’s a good idea that he should illicitly marry you in his church.  

It’s nearly midnight as you set your phone down on the bedside table. As you reach the threshold of your room, you see Emmanuel standing at the far end of the hall, one hand on the doorknob still, looking at you expectantly.

You shake your head gently. _No_. His hand slips from the knob and he vanishes into the dark bedroom behind him.

After knocking softly on the half-open door, you ask if he’s okay. When he says you may come in, you find him sitting up in bed, legs crossed at the ankle. Head against the headboard, eyes closed, your mother’s old, beat-up Bible sits closed in his lap. You perch on the edge of the mattress.

“To be fair,” you offer, “it wasn’t a definite _never_ no, it was more of an _I don’t think so_.” He opens his eyes, and looking pained he turns away, towards the window. You wonder again what, or who, he’s looking for when he does that.

“Why is this so important to you?” you ask quietly.

He turns back toward you, forehead creased.

“Because, I owe you so much, Daphne. You took me in, you cared for me, you’ve never asked for anything in return.” He shifts the Bible off his lap and takes both your hands. “You gave me a life... and it’s a _good_ life. And now I just want to stay here, with you. I want to—" he shakes his head, looking for the right word "—to _belong_ to you.”

You let out a quiet _oh_ and a surge of warmth floods your chest.

“But... you already do,” you say. “Can’t you tell?”

When he smiles at you, you squeeze his hands affectionately and draw a deep breath for what you’re about to ask.

“Emmanuel, do you... do you love me?”

There’s a small white spot on the front of his gray t-shirt, where one day you must have gotten bleach on it. Your eyes lock onto to it because you can't possibly look at his face to see what he might say next.  

He places his hands on either side of your neck, thumbs tenderly brushing your cheeks.

He asks quietly, “Don’t you already know that I do?”

“It’s just you—you never said, so, how was I to know, I mean, if you did—“

The spot on his shirt wavers and blurs in front of tears and in an instant, his arms are around you. Your face is buried in the side of his neck and he smells like the summer sun, like linens dried on a clothesline and grass underfoot. He strokes your hair, your back, and makes a soft shushing sound.

You slide your arms around his waist and take a deep breath and tell him you love him.

“Even though I’m not your husband?” he asks.

You begin to explain how you don’t care that the two of you aren’t married and it takes a minute for you to realize what it is he’s really asking. You reach up and turn his face to yours but now he's the one who can’t quite meet your eye.

“Yes,” you say. “I was married. And I loved him very, very much. But I _love you_ and... it’s not second-best, or less than, or anything like that.” Your hands smooth over his rumpled hair. “You’re you and I love that. I love you because you’re kind and gentle and... and beautiful.”

You cup his face in your hands and pull him towards you to cover his face in soft, small kisses, dotting his eyelids, his stubbled cheek, the cleft in his chin.

“And I don’t need Father Randall or anyone else to tell me you belong to me, because you already do.”

In an instant, you know what you want—no, what you _need_ —to do. Folding your legs under you, you smooth your hair from your face and sit up straight. You clear your throat and draw upon your memories from a long time ago.

You offer your hands to him, palms up, entreating as a supplicant, and ask, “Emmanuel, will you... take me as your wife, to live together in covenant of marriage, forsaking all others?”

“I... wait,” he says.

He picks up the battered old Bible on the bed, opening it to reveal two silver bands, heavy, plain, unadorned. They're the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

He picks up your left hand, slides the ring onto your finger and quietly says, “Yes.”

“Then here, in the sight of God, I, Daphne,” you say, taking the larger ring, “take you as my husband from this day forward, to love and cherish, for better or worse, in sickness and in health.” The ring slips into place. “This is my solemn vow.”

His eyes search your face, questioning what comes next.

You whisper, “You may now kiss me, husband,” and he does.

 

* * *

**Epilogue**

The next morning, you awake in a tangle of bedsheets and limbs. The silver of your wedding band is lustrous in the morning sun as you stretch your arms in front of you. Your new husband stirs against your back, kissing the back of your neck warmly. You examine the ring on your finger, twisting it experimentally.

“How did you know what size to get?” you ask. His hand slides down the length of your left arm and takes your hand in his.

“I measured.”

“When?”

“While you were asleep.”

You turn over to look at him. “You measured my finger _while I was asleep_?”  

His cheeks turn pink.

“I... wanted it to be a surprise and I didn’t know how else to find out what size I should order.”

“You are adorable,” you say, adding, “and just a little bit creepy,” as you pull his hand to your mouth and kiss the center of his palm.

“Why do you think Father Randall said no?” he asks. “What did he say to you?”

You think it over and shrug.

“Not much, really. Mostly it was me who did the talking. I just... honestly, I started crying and I told him that you make me happy and that I didn’t care if I have only known you a short time, I want to be with you.”

When he smiles at you, you push him gently over onto his back and climb over his body until he’s beneath you.

“Why, what did _you_ say to him?” You whisper in his ear and trace its outer ridge with the tip of your tongue, and he shivers with anticipation.

“I... I don’t know.” His hands find purchase on your hips, then caress down your thighs and back up again. His fingertips seek to slip beneath the edges of your panties, to peel them away, and you shake him off by gently rocking your hips from side to side. When he groans with frustration, you nip his earlobe.

In one swift motion, he has you on your back, both your wrists pinned under his one hand. He nuzzles the column of your neck and says, “Most of my conversation with Father Randall entailed the bodily harm he would inflict upon me if I hurt you.”

He pulls away and smirks at you, blue eyes starting to glaze with desire.

“I don’t think he likes me very much, Daphne.”

Your hips thrust up to meet his.

“That’s okay,” you murmur, “I do.”

 


End file.
